When Dreaming
by Etimire T
Summary: Where do you draw the lines between reality and fantasy? John Watson falls into coma after being shot in Afghanistan. While asleep, John dreams that he shares a flat with a sociopath who has an addiction to mysteries. However, upon awaking, John must face the reality that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is a figment of his imagination... Or is he?
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: Really sorry if you are waiting for other stories of mine that I should probably be updating, but... I had this great idea and couldn't ignore it. Anyway. Please enjoy. I own nothing._**

1

John was lost in a dream that was quickly turning into a nightmare. His feet slammed against the concrete as he flew from the cab and onto the street. What was that idiot pulling this time?

St. Barts hospital rose in front of him like a massive tombstone and on the very tip, if he squinted, John could see a dark figure balanced far too close to the edge. The man's dark cloak fluttered in the wind and he tossed a cell phone to the ground.

Nononononono! John knew what the man was about to do and although he wasn't quite sure why, his heart fell through his feet. He screamed a name he couldn't hear. The wind shoved and whispered to him even as John ran forward, anguish tugging out his guts. _Falling is like flying, just with a more permanent destination._

Suddenly the scene changed and John found himself sitting in an armchair, his laptop sitting in his lap. His fingers flew across the keys.

_I've never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Henry Knight. Sherlock had been bored. And trust me, you don't want to be around him when he's bored. He's hyperactive, rude, arrogant and a real pain in the behind._

Who was Sherlock? John thought. What a weird name.

John didn't have time to think about this because the next thing he knew, he was whisked away again. There was a woman standing at the end of a long, thin hallway, and the man stood a bit to the right wearing the same dark cloak. It was night in the hallway. John stood from the wheelchair he sat in, fixing his mussed up hair. The blonde woman caught his eye and absolute anguish flooded her features. He loved her but didn't know why.

John was numb. How could she do this to him? How could she betray him?

Suddenly white flashed through his vision and John found himself at yet another baffling scene.

The recoil from the handgun was mighty, but John was used to it. He was a soldier. He'd pressed the trigger without hesitation and the bullet flew through the window, slamming into the left shoulder of an elderly man. Taxi driver.

There was the dark cloaked man again, in the room with the now dying old man.

Faster and faster images and clips whizzed by John.

_There's a head in the fridge… None of the cabs would take me! She says it's psychological, quite correctly, I'm afraid. _Beep. Beep. _Drops of blood. Give me a second and I'll get my phone out of my pocket!_

"_Staying alive!" At a pool. Stuffy coat..._

Beep. Beep.

"_I was a SOLDIER!"_

"_You were a doctor!"_

"_I had bad days!"_

BEEP. BEEP.

"_It's all in your mind, John…" _

"_Would you like some coffee?" HOUND … Drugged?_

"_I'm your…. best friend?" Shocked. Blue eyes wide. _

"_Yes, yeah. Of course you are." That was the truth._

**BEEP! BEEP!**

_Burning eye. Plop. Coffee. Sip. "How was that, then?"_

_Charles Magnussen. "... Unless you let me flick your eye. Try to keep it open, alright? There you go!"_

_**SHERLOCK!**_

All at once the voices and images stopped and John was left gasping. Sherlock… now he knew the man's name. He was his best friend, even though John wasn't sure how. A moment ago he was certain he had never seen him before, but now he knew he would never forget the man's face. Never.

John's eyes flew open to be met by a harsh white light. He gasped and the air raced down his sandy throat. His throat felt like crap, to be perfectly honest, and his entire body was numb. He could only barely make out the faces of several strangers surrounding him. Soon their voices met his ears, as if from underwater.

"He's awake!"

"Hello, John."

"You're going to be alright."

"You were in a coma.

"It's been about a month."

"It's a miracle!"

Everything afterward came in disjointed pieces. _Blue gloves. White coats. Strained faces. Can't move. Light is so bright. Hospital? Why?_

As he closed his eyes again, John remembered. He had been in a battle. War.

Oh yes, he was a soldier. He'd gotten shot.

That's what he got for trying to be a hero. Distantly, his leg ached. Wasn't he shot in the shoulder?

No time to think on that. He survived, apparently. How?

And where was his friend? Sherlock would be here if he was in the hospital...

But before the answer could arise, John melted back into oblivion.

"_Let him sleep. Now that he's come out of it, he'll be alright."_

It took several weeks of therapy for John to walk on his own, and yet, he still felt he need to use a crutch. His leg would often ache spontaneously, and although his doctors concluded that there was nothing wrong with it, John didn't believe them. It hurt, didn't it? That meant something was wrong.

Of course, that was the least of his problems at the moment. The first time they told him, John thought it was some sort of sick joke.

He'd been asking for Sherlock since he woke up. John figured the selfish idiot was probably holed up a home and hadn't realized he was awake. Finally, a nurse gave John an answer; however, her words were far from satisfactory.

"Mr. Watson, we ran your history."

John frowned, confused. "Okay?"

Sympathy, no, _pity _filled the nurse's greenish-blue eyes. "This is going to be hard, Mr. Watson, and I am very sorry. Coma patients often suffer from delusions, a lack of mental clarity-"

"Excuse me?"

Now the nurse sighed. "You never lived at 221B. You don't have a blog and as far as we can see, you've never met a Sherlock Holmes."

John's stomach fell right to the floor. "No," he said slowly. His tongue felt thick and sluggish. "No. That's not true. He's my friend. I- I _know _him."

Carefully the nurse stepped forward and laid a hand on top of Watson's. He didn't have the strength to move it. "When would you have had a chance to meet him, John? You've been in Afghanistan for over two years and before that, you lived hours away from London! Besides staying in a hospital in London for a bit, have you ever even _been _to London?"

Gulping, John let his head fall backward onto the pillow behind him. Had he? Had he ever been to London? For a moment, John was certain that he had, but when he tried to draw on the particulars of the visits, he drew a blank.

The memories were incomplete like-

"A dream, Mr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes doesn't exist. He never has."

No. That wasn't true. It couldn't be.

John could see the detective's figure in his mind's eye. He had the color of Sherlock's eyes memorized. They were a brilliant blue, sharp and dissecting. His best friend's coat smelled like a laboratory somehow mixed with mint.

Sherlock's voice was sharp in his ears. _But I'm so _bored_, John_!

Could he have imagined all that? Was he really that creative, to come up with someone as brilliant and simultaneously idiotic as Sherlock Holmes.

Fear crept up his throat at the thought, but John quickly hid the emotion and ignored the nurse until she finished her duties and left. Only then did he let out the true extent of his panic.

Shivering, John forced himself to sit up, but the effort proved too much and he collapsed back on the bed. Pathetic, that's how he felt right now. Pathetic and useless, unable to prove his best-friend's existence, actually, unable to even sit up in his bloody bed!

And he was alone. Harry didn't bother to visit, although she reluctantly paid the hospital bill and did give him a call. But John didn't want to talk to Harry. He didn't want to talk to anyone. Anyone except his best friend.

Now it seemed that even Sherlock had deserted him.

Not that is was exactly his fault.

Despite his denial, after weeks of physical and mental therapy, John slowly slipped into what felt like reality.

It was pounded into his head every day.

_Sherlock Holmes is a figment of your imagination._

_Sherlock doesn't exit._

Sherlock was never real and it was about time John accepted it. Besides, there was no such thing as consulting detectives. How could he be so stupid?

"In all probability," his therapist murmured. She sipped a cup of tea. John had been moved to a rehabilitation center in London by this time. "This 'Sherlock Holmes', was your mind's way of coping while you were asleep. You say in your dreams you… fought crime?"

"Solved it. Sherlock was a detective."

"Ah," the therapist nodded slowly like he had just said something very profound. "Your mind could have been giving you a physical image of your fight, or attempts in fighting, against the virus in your system."

Without warning, John chuckled. "Well, that's rubbish! Couldn't I have come up with someone more helpful? He was a pain in the behind like you wouldn't believe."

Gently, the therapist smiled. "I see you are referring to your friend in the past tense. That is progress."

John frowned. Had he? His adventures with Sherlock felt so long ago, buried and blurred by the events of the last few months, while everything else, although muted and boring in comparison, was solid. Actually, most of his 'memories; were so locked away, he only caught glimpses now and then. The therapist's explanation made sense and John was a doctor. He knew delusions and strange dreams were common in coma patients. He also knew he was extremely lucky to have recovered so well.

The therapist was right. They were all right.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't real.

This was real. Here and now. No detectives. No mysteries. No… anything.

He was John Watson and that was it.

_**AN: Right, so that's the beginning. I hope you like it. Please leave me a review:)**_


	2. Chapter 2

2

_Several months prior:_

"How long has he been like this?"

"About a month. He was injured, and the wound became infected. The injury is under control, but there is no way to know whether or not he'll beat the virus and wake up. In my professional opinion, John prefers to stay asleep. I hardly blame him."

"How so?"

The nurse shrugged. "He hasn't had a single visitor since he arrive here."

The dark haired man cocked his head at the unfamiliar man in the other room. The soldier lay motionless in the hospital bed, eyes moving rapidly beneath his closed lids. The man wasn't sure why he was so interested in the man. This John Watson was just another victim of war, nothing special. So why did he always pause at this door in the hospital and peer inside. There was no logical reason to do so, but there was something about the man that fascinated him.

It was an unfamiliar fascination, too; not the sort of fascination he drug up about his experiments or peculiar crime. This was a fascination with a person, and there didn't seem to be a logical reason for it. He wondered what John's voice sounded like. What did he look like when he walked? Was he an intro or extrovert?

His own curiosity and fascination baffled the dark-cloaked man.

What was special about John Watson? As far as he could tell, nothing.

So why was he so curious?

Shaking his head at the oddity of it all, he nodded curtly toward the nurse and continued down the hall, hands shoved in his pockets. He needed to think about this phenomenon.

It wasn't long before the man in the dark coat was back at St. Bart's Hospital. He was supposed to be conducting an experiment, but as he passed by John Watson's room, he paused and glanced inside. The soldier lay inside, looking exactly like he always did. Still, pale, eyes roaming beneath his lids.

Perhaps it was because he was bored and he didn't think his experiment would work out anyway, or maybe… just maybe he wanted someone to talk to. _Needed_. Whatever the reason, he dropped what he was doing before he logic-ed himself out of it and silently entered the hospital room.

For a long time he just stared at John Watson. He slowly sat down. Coughing awkwardly, the man stared at his feet for a moment. "Right, hello. I've seen you a few times and I know you can't hear me but I just…" Why was he doing this? he wasn't sure.

Because it felt… right. Somehow.

"Anyhow, you don't really have anyone to talk to, so you're probably not too picky on the subject … I'm doing an experiment on how to make blood reappear on cloth. It's really fascinating and I'm sure it will be very useful someday … "

At first the words came haltingly, but as he spoke, he soon fell into a comfortable speed, equally grateful and annoyed that John couldn't speak back.

After an hour of voicing whatever he could think of to say, the man in the dark coat stood abruptly and ran a hand through his hair. He had never done something so ridiculous in his entire life, but it felt good. "You're a good listener," he murmured, "better than the skull, but only by a bit. I suppose I ought to go now..."

Not sure how to continue, he sighed and walked out.

He returned several times, but never told anyone of his visits to the unconscious soldier who'd caught his attention. Eventually, the man came to visit but the nurse said that John Watson had been moved to another hospital. Where? She didn't know.

He was saddened by his lack of a Watson, but soon moved on. What else could he do? It wasn't like he would ever see the man again. Besides, the habit was illogical and weak, emotionally.

* * *

After what felt like eternity, John was released and given a small apartment, government housing. He acquired a job as a doctor at a small clinic in London and spent most days either at home or at work. Burying himself in life, John learned to ignore the ache in his chest by focusing on the ache in his leg.

He used to dream about his life with his friend Sherlock, but now the dreams took turn for the worse.

John screamed, sitting up quickly. His hand automatically curled around the handgun on his bedside table and after a moment he set in down again. The sun filtered through the blinds and he found himself breathing in the dusty air of the bare apartment.

There was no one here. It was just a dream; a dream he could no longer remember. Growling in frustration, John flung his legs to the side of the bed and ground his fists into his eyes. What was wrong with him? He lived a decent life, got… sort of decent pay. He ate well and his needs were all met.

So why did he feel so empty inside?

* * *

John decided to take a walk in the park in a spontaneous burst of hopefulness. Maybe if he got outside, he'd ease the lonely ache. His footsteps were odd and disjointed.

_Thump, thump-clip, thump, thump-clip._

The crutch was still present at his side and John found himself tiring. The effects of the coma still lingered and he often felt this way. Yawning boredly, John sat down on a park bench and let his eyes wander aimlessly across the park.

An old woman fed pigeons and children yammered at their parents.

No one noticed him. People hardly ever did. John had a way of disappearing, fading into the background.

So when he heard his name called out from the crowd, John started in surprise and stood with a grunt. A heavy-set man shoved his way toward him with a chubby grin. "I saw your face, and I thought to myself, now, that couldn't possibly be John Watson, Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, could it?"

John took a step away, skeptical. His memory was still a bit sketchy of late and he didn't quite recall the man. "Ah, yeah, it's me. John Watson. Who-?"

"Oh, that's just brilliant!" the man interrupted, "It's Mike! Mike Stamford!"

Instantly a worm of a memory wriggled in John's mind and he let a small smile creep up his face. "Right, oh, yes! Mike, gosh, it's been awhile!"

Nodding in agreement, Mike looked at John curiously. "What happened to you? I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at."

Truth be told, John hated it when people asked obvious questions. "Got shot," he answered simply.

Mike wasn't put off by John's slight sarcasm, and soon was tumbling off on a completely different train of conversation. John _did _recall the man being a bit of a gab.

"I just got a new job. I'm working at St. Barts Hospital, heard of it?"

John's eyebrows rose. "I actually was cared for there."

"Really? That's interesting. You must have moved out before I arrived."

"Must have."

To be sure, John _wasn't _a gab. He was quite content to let his old friend talk. And talk he did. "So have you found a place to stay?" Mike said after a few minutes.

"Of sorts," came John's short reply, "Just government housing."

"Hmm…" Government housing was not a permanent fix and Mike knew it. "Have you looked into sharing a flat? I hear a lot of blokes have been doing that."

John snorted. "Come on, who would want to share a flat with me?"

Strangely enough, Mike gave him an amused look. A mischievous glint lept into his eyes. "You know… you are actually the second person to say that to me today."

John blinked. "... And who was the first?"

**_AN: Thank you to all of you who favorites and review and followed! Eeeek! I can't wait to post the next chapter! Please leave me a review, I greatly appreciate it!_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_AN: You poor readers. I keep coming up with all these story ideas and then I have so many that I don't have time to update all of them:( Anyway, enjoy this bit of coolness._**

3

The hospital morgue did not have a pleasant smell. Disinfectant attempted to smother the stench of the dead and was only moderately successful. Amid this onslaught to his nose, John picked up a hint of mints that instantly reminded him of Sherlock. Why had Sherlock smelled like mints anyway?

John shook the feeling of deja vu away. He was moving on now. Today it was permanent. He would leave behind his injuries and do away with his daydreams. And hopefully, he would get a flat with someone normal.

Mike carried on a conversation that John didn't listen to more than to nod and chuckle at where he hoped were the right places. Unsurprisingly, Mike didn't seem bothered by John's lack of input. "Now, I must warn you," Mike spoke, "he is a bit of an odd fellow."

John snorted, rolling his eyes. "Of course he is," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Continue."

"Right," Mike paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. They traveled deeper and deeper into the hospital.

_This was a place Sherlock would have holed up…_

_No. Stop thinking about him._

"Anyway, he's nice enough, just a bit eccentric, ya know?"

"Believe me, I do."

At this time, they reached the door of a large, white laboratory. The window of the entrance was fogged, and John could only make out a vague, dark form bent over a table.

"This is it," Mike pointed out unnecessarily.

Nodding, John entered the room.

And he could have sworn that all the oxygen left the universe. He stopped cold, Mike entering behind him and shutting the door. Quickly, John stumbled back.

"You alright, mate?"

John didn't respond, his eyes on the man and a hand clasped tightly over his mouth. He didn't remember putting it there, and if he took it off, John felt he would scream.

It wasn't him. It couldn't be him.

John's throat was dry, and his words were like those spoken by a man in the desert. "... Sherlock?" he whispered. That single word wrapped itself up in questions and disbelief and shock and fear and relief all at once.

Reluctantly, the man's kaleidoscope eyes flicked up from a telescope and met John's. His orbs were ice blue with hints of green scattered inside randomly. Upon seeing him, the man's eyebrows rose, which his equivalent of complete shock. Immediately Sherlock dropped a test tube held in his hand.

It shattered on the floor, and no one moved to clean it up.

"John… Watson?" he answered slowly, squinting in question.

Hearing his deep, baritone voice was like a rush of fresh water. John couldn't stand it. This wasn't real. I couldn't be.

Cautiously, Sherlock Holmes took a step toward them and instantly John raised a hand as if to ward him off. He backed up until he was against the wall. "No," he whispered, growing louder with each word, "No. I'm going mad. You're not real. They- they said that you aren't real!" A sudden realization hit John between the eyes, and he snapped to Mike, who watched the two men's actions with confusion. "Can- can you see him?" John asked desperately, pointing at Sherlock.

Mike blinked. "What the heck are you talking about, John? Of course, I can see him!" He frowned, glancing between the two men. "I see you two know each other."

"Yes," said John.

"No," Sherlock replied simultaneously.

Coughing awkwardly, Mike shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Um… could you clarify?"

"I mean," Sherlock answered, eyes never leaving John. He didn't seem to realize it was Mike who had asked the question. His eyes flicked up and down John rapidly. It was a motion John recognised. He was deducing (1) him. "I _have _met you, John. But you were asleep." For a moment Sherlock's eyes grew sad, "I used to talk to you…" Seeing John's incredulous eyebrow, he added, "purely for scientific purposes, of course."

"Of course."

John was still in shock. Sherlock stood in front of him. Real, alive, breathing. "What the actual heck?" he breathed. "I dreamed about you for months. We were…" he almost said _friends_, but he doubted Sherlock would take that well. "...Partners," he inserted instead, "You're a detective, but you don't work with the police or something like that. It's all sort of blurry now."

Mike's eyes were wide. "You remember him talking to you?"

"No, he couldn't." Sherlock murmured, "He must have heard me and sculpted a dream out of the what I told him…" He tried to take a step closer and this time John let him. Soon the detective was face to face with John and John had to crane his neck upwards to look him in the eye. "Fascinating," Sherlock whispered. "The mind is an amazing thing."

Gulping, John stuffed his hands in his pockets so Sherlock couldn't see them shaking. "I've been told for months that you weren't real."

"Yes, well. I'm only known in certain circles. A hospital miles from here wouldn't have heard of me."

"They will," John spouted.

"What?"

John shrugged.

Sherlock's eyes searched his face and John knew he wasn't quite satisfied with John's response, but he didn't address it. "For the sake of my curiosity, how much do you know about me?"

Oh, where it start? "Well, you call yourself a consulting detective, which isn't a real position- and before you protest, I looked it up. Consulting detectives aren't a thing."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took a step back and crossed his arms. "Just because it isn't a 'thing' doesn't mean I can't start it." He sighed. "Anyhow, continue."

"You hate sentiment and are addicted to that scarf. You experiment for days on end and hardly ever sleep. You're trying to quit smoking and use nicotine patches… I _think _you play the violin or some stringed instrument. You hate being bored. Like, seriously hate it. Oh, and you have an older brother who apparently is in complete control of the British Government..." John trailed off. "I could go on,"

"No," Sherlock's eyes were blank.

"Gosh, Mr. Holmes, you told him an awful lot."

Slowly, Sherlock shook his head. "I must have," he murmured, "how else could he know it?" A thoughtful expression took over his face, and he opened his mouth as if to say something else. However, at that moment, his phone must have vibrated from his coat pocket because Sherlock took out an iPhone. Frowning at it, he quickly texted something and then met John's eyes. "I've got to go. Do you still want to look at the flat?"

"Who said anything about a flat?" Mike squeaked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's obvious isn't it?"

"It's not," John replied, "But don't explain. Just, whatever. Yeah, I still want to look." He tried to act nonchalant, but his heart was pounding. "221B, right?"

Sherlock, who had already turned to leave, swept back around sharply. He frowned. "Yes… Baker street."

"Something wrong?"

"No. Met me there. Six PM tomorrow."

And then he was gone, the door shutting behind him.

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat and furrowed his brow furiously. His heels clicked on the tile floor but he didn't hear it over his thoughts. Here he had been presented with a most perplexing puzzle. The truth is, he hadn't received a text but needed a way out of that room. John's eyes burned a hole through him as he spouted knowledge about his life.

It disturbed Sherlock more than he cared to admit because he racked his brain, but Sherlock was certain he had never talked with the man about anything more than his current experiments.

If John had dreamed about Sherlock because he spoke to the man when he was asleep, how had he recognised Sherlock before Sherlock spoke? It didn't make sense!

Had he even told John his name? Sherlock tried to convince himself that the event must be slipping his mind even though he knew that that wasn't possible.

But if he hadn't told John Watson, then how did John know so much about him?

_A most perplexing puzzle…_

**_AN: Sorry it's been so long:/ school has been crazy._**

**_(1) Heh. I almost made a really hilarious autocorrect mistake. It changed 'deducing' to 'seducing'._**

**_Sorry, that just makes me giggle._**


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